


In Difficult Times

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3757009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington. Multiple small pieces and fragments, will put individual ratings (not all M).<br/>I do not own the characters or The Blacklist from which they came.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shame

Never in his wildest imagination, his lowest, most terrifying nightmares, would he ever have believed he would bring shame upon his uniform.

His navy dress whites. 

His jacket on the filthy floor.

His white slacks down to mid thighs, writhing against the handcuffs that chained him so securely to the bed.

Raymond Reddington wakes sweating and thrashing from the nightmare come true, again and again.

***

Her blue eyes, empty, contemptuous.

His orders were to keep her indoors. Her husband would be arrested as he arrived at the home that evening. The secrets vital to national security would be recovered.

She claimed her daughter was sleeping. Blew smoke rings at him when he expressed his concern.

Red believed she was flattered by his attentions. That he could fob her off with kisses, caresses.

He was a happily married man. But she demanded they play a very different game.

***

"Help me!" 

The little girl is screaming, and someone is moaning so loudly as Red tries to focus on the handcuff key on the nightstand. Too far. 

"Help me!" he cries out again, and the screaming comes closer, dissolves into a red-faced little girl with long loose hair, a stuffed toy clutched to her chest.

"The key," Red begs her, the flames eating at his back as the ceiling tiles covering him are consumed. The bed is on fire now, like the still figure on the floor. The dead woman who had once been her mother. "The key."

The little girl takes the key and struggles to open the lock, crying pitifully as the heated metal burns her palm, her wrist, at every incautious touch.

Her small fingers fumble again and again until at last the handcuffs release.

Red gathers her up in his arms, toy and all, and rushes from the burning bedroom, wishing all the while that the noise, that horrible wet moaning, would quiet or stop.

They're in a snowbank beneath some evergreen shrubbery, cowering as men with guns converge on the house, before Red realizes that he's the one making those sounds.

***

Her father died in a hail of bullets, running from the house after shooting his wife and Red, then setting the room alight. Unaware, or more likely uncaring, that his young daughter was still in the building.

Red botched the mission. The secrets were lost or destroyed or stolen, no way to confirm their fate.

The price of his failure was the loss of his reputation, his family, his career.

There was no Christmas drive through the snow.

Either he accepted his fate, vowed never to see them again, or Red would be cashiered and left out in the cold for their enemies to find and pick apart. Along with his family. They left him no choice. They didn't quite trust him, although nothing could be proven.

***

It's a grim story, humiliating, and Red is no less ashamed for the many years since he's even alluded to the truth around someone he cares for.

Cares for. So cautious, even in the depths of his own private mind. Even the morning after.

Liz sits facing him on the bed, the morning light slanting beneath the bottom edge of the cheap motel drapes. The room is littered with their clothing, towels from their late night shower, clear plastic cups containing the dark dregs of some truly remarkable French wines.

She's still naked, but he's pulled one edge of the disordered top sheet over his lap as he tells her the story. Looking down, not meeting her eyes.

"So both my father and mother are dead? And you blame yourself?"

He nods, struggling to find the courage to raise his eyes to her face.

Red assumed she knew at least some of the story. She didn't react to the horrific scars on his back, just held him and caressed him until he felt a narrow cord unwinding slowly from around his heart. Her every word tugs at what remains.

"Red, I still have one question."

Anything. Nothing. 

"If my father is dead, then why can't I know his name?"

That analytical mind, beautiful as her slim, strong body.

Red looks up at her in despair, hoping against hope that his next words won't spur her to send him away. From her bed, from her room, from her life. 

"Because it would lead you to your grandfather."


	2. A Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, angst, sad

His head pressing back hard against his pillow, Red's eyes are mere slits, his lips curling back from his teeth like the last warning of a guard dog poised to spring.

"I came out of that box because I needed to find the Fulcrum." His tone is bitter, final. "That's why Luli died, and not you."

"So I only care about you because of my career? Is that what you want me to say?"

Liz hates to fight. It's not easy to provoke her; she's more likely to go silent, withholding her words, her attention. He's been spurring her to it for days now. As the time for his departure draws near.

Red ignores her question. 

"You just want some man to tell you what to do." His chuckle defines sarcasm.

Liz breathes in and out, slowly.

"You should have lied and told me you were my father," she retorts. "If you wanted me to just listen to you and obey you."

"I wish I was your father..." his voice breaks off as Liz seizes the nearest object on his bedside table, an enormous crystal vase filled with dahlias.

"You pervert!" she hisses at him, lifting it high as if to fling it across the hospital room.

"I'm a pervert? You have no business tying yourself to this, this ..."

The wave of his hand down the length of his prone body expresses his disgust as clearly the curl of his lips, the droop of his eyelids.

The damage to his spine. There are some new therapies available, but the specialists haven't been encouraging.

"You still have some function..."

Liz sets the vase down carefully. The flowers were a gift from Mr. Kaplan. Breaking her vase would be beyond foolish.

"You dared to talk to my doctors..." 

Her eyes widen briefly in fear at his vicious tone, even though Liz is sure beyond all doubt that Dembe has carefully removed all the weapons from the room. 

Red doesn't want her to come with him into hiding. He's been trying to drive her away for more than a week now. 

Since his diagnosis was confirmed.

Liz only agreed to the fight because she can't take many more of his petty rejections; outwardly calm, then weeping afterward in the hallway out of his earshot. On Dembe's shoulder in the lobby. Even in the hospital cafeteria, her tears dripping into another bowl of bland, lukewarm oatmeal.

Red kissed her from his hospital bed before he knew the extent of his injuries.

She knew. And she kissed him back anyway.

Liz is going to win this fight. Red just doesn't know it yet.


	3. Sold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, T, post T. Earl King

Raymond Reddington can't deal with what Elizabeth Keen has told him. 

Not for the reasons she so naively assumes. That he's damaged. That he's afraid to let her close.

Red has promised not to lie to Liz. But he's ashamed, beyond ashamed, at the reason he spoke so harshly to her.

When Madeline Pratt sold him to the Kings, he once again mentally labeled her actions as foreplay.

Red assumed that Madeline would purchase him herself, then make him beg for his freedom.

He was prepared to allow her to punish him in her own illimitable way. Not his favorite type of game, too physically painful, too humiliating, but a game Red can play, one he knows that he more than deserves. And he hungers for touch, any touch, for the feel of warm skin. To breathe in desire, not fear.

But instead, Madeline left the auction. Took her payment, whatever it was, and left Red at their mercy.

While Lizzie, she stayed. He put her life at risk with that very dangerous, foolish game. 

Red has become more careful over the years, less and less willing to let any woman come too close. 

Which has translated, as he ages, from wholehearted, indiscriminate abandon among those he cares nothing about, to a very careful and thorough prior assessment of anyone who might be allowed to touch him when he's not armed. Without Dembe or another guard in the room.

Luli is dead. Madeline is a traitor.

And now Lizzie. 

She said his name for the first time. 

Raymond. 

As if it tasted good on her tongue, as if she was considering his purchase for a reason that had nothing to do with information, or revenge.

For pleasure.

Red sits quietly in the car, even the hem of his coat drawn apart so as not to touch her.

She's crying without sound.

She wants him. God help him, Lizzie wants him.

And he's too ashamed to even take her hand.


	4. Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G

She's never imagined all these details.

Raymond Reddington appears and disappears from her life, immaculately garbed, armed to the teeth, seemingly omniscient.

Dembe has asked for her help. He doesn't know how the shooter found them; only that Liz herself wasn't involved.

He doesn't trust the FBI, and Liz can't say that she blames him.

They need to get Red into hiding as soon as he stabilizes.

"Why can't we just abandon all this and buy more later?" Liz complains, rapidly packing the contents of Red's closet into the waiting suitcases.

"He won't be well enough for the fittings," Dembe responds, the rattling sounds from the bathroom indicating his own speed at collecting Red's many toiletries. "Besides, we may be going somewhere rather ... remote."

"Remote?"

Liz rummages through one drawer after another, finding stacks of handkerchiefs, scarves, and brand new pairs of socks. Everything smells faintly of Red's cologne.

"Here." Dembe hands her Red's bathrobe from the hook in the bathroom. Liz shakes it out carefully before folding it away.

There are so many shoes.

Dembe helps her slide them all away into their own little bags, presumably designed to keep them polished and free from scuff marks.

Liz fits her fingers into the smooth heel of the most worn pair of leather slippers, imagining Red sliding them on with relief at the end of the day. 

Then she shakes her head at her own foolishness. Daydreaming about Red's feet. She's never even seen his bare feet.

Only this most terrible of exigencies could have allowed Liz to be here with Dembe, packing up the safe house that is no longer safe.

She moves to the next drawer, and pauses, staring down at Red's underwear.

Pristinely clean, neatly folded, in an array of styles. All in plain white, smelling of bleach. Her heart pounds as she stacks them into the corners of the largest suitcase. 

"Is that the last of it?"

Dembe has shoved all the books stacked on the nightstands into a deep nylon bag with long handles.

"Yes," Liz assures him, starting to close up the bags. So many possessions, and not one item she would label personal.

The fedoras are protected by hatboxes devoid of labels or monograms. No luggage tags on the multitude of bags.

Remembering Sam checking each hotel room at the end of their summer vacation, Liz peers under the bed, then runs her fingers under the pillows.

She would not have been surprised to find a weapon, or a burner phone, or even a bottle. She doesn't expect the pale pink cardboard square, so feminine, so out of place.

Liz stares at it for a moment, then reluctantly lifts it to her nose. The familiar scent brings instant tears to her eyes.

Her new perfume, on department store tester paper.

"Let's go."

Liz tucks the paper into her pocket and starts helping Dembe with the bags. She'll place it under his pillow at the new safe house.

Because the details, they matter.


	5. Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, T, fragment.  
> For eaglechica19, in response to a request.

The blow knocks him backwards and he rolls with the long instinct of years, his back strong and curved, allowing his feet to fly up. Still conscious of Dembe's presence, the car parked rather than idling, the angle of the car hood.

Once down, Red needs to move, to get to cover.

But he stays down, the pain increasing despite his obvious assessment of shock, then the ominous blood loss.

Blood in his mouth, that full wet feeling, and his cheek on the hot, rough pavement.

Is this the end?

Liz screams and all he wants now is to rise, to throw himself between her body and whatever elicited that scream, but it feels as if someone has driven a stake through his chest, pinning him to the unforgiving concrete.

Red hears the sound of shots, is briefly enveloped in the familiar scent of her perfume as Liz kneels beside him, Dembe at his head. Shots and more shots, and still he's on his back, drowning in his own bloody spume, and Red wants to tell them but nobody is listening because he's somehow not making any sounds, no matter how loudly he's screaming in his head.

Then Dembe is dragging him, and Red loses track of time, nothing but blackness and blood and the fear that Liz will be next, the imagined sound of the next bullet striking her carrying him down into tortured unconsciousness.

***

"Just hang in there, Red, we're in an ambulance, you're going to be OK."

Liz is clinging to the side of the stretcher as the ambulance rockets loudly through the crowded streets. She's threatened to handcuff herself to it if the EMTs won't let her stay where she can see his face, talk to him.

Liz has never seen Red out of control before, never seen him succumb to terror. It sends an answering fear roaring through her, unquenchable as fire.

"Help, help, help," he gasps.

His eyes roll wildly, his nostrils flaring, thrashing against the restraints as his bloody chest heaves. 

"I'm here, Red, you're fine, you're going to be fine."

The techs have torn his vest and his white dress shirt open, and bright red blood is spilling down his neck, rivulets clotting in the fair fine hair sprinkling his chest, shocking against the contrast of his pale, pale skin. 

Her hands are just as bloody, the crusty stains already starting to darken.

Liz wants to pull her weapon, reload it, then threaten the driver to make him drive faster. Give the techs working so efficiently yet another reason to save Red, to save him.

To make the pain stop.

"Lizzie, Lizzie," he's gasping at her now, his eyes fixed on her face, as great frightening bubbles of blood pass from his lips and overflow to coat his mouth and face.

For a moment the dark waters of memory threaten to submerge her, his terror so like her own, as if she's watching him tied down and tortured, water-boarded over and over again.

"Red, Red," she gasps, afraid to touch him, afraid to interfere with the frantic action, IV lines, medications, the oxygen that appears to be providing no surcease from pain and terror. "I'm here, Red, I'm here."

He gives a tremendous gasp, then flings himself sideways towards her, both EMTs yelling in alarm as he almost pulls free of the restraints, his bloody face contorted in agony. A bloody mist spatters her face and clothing as he strains towards her. 

"Lizzie, can't breathe!" His voice is clotted and high with panic and she reaches for him without thinking and presses his shoulders back down onto the stretcher, heedless of his deep-throated groan of pain.

"Lie still!" she screams. "Lie still and don't you dare die on me, Red!"

His eyes roll in terror and then fix on her again, and she leans forward over him because to lean away, to break that gaze, would be impossible. Glaring at him, she slowly lowers her wet face to press her forehead to his, all the while intoning "Red, Red, Red," as if somehow the repetition of his name will keep him with her, and present. Ignoring the tears now streaming down her cheeks, falling into his eyes as he blinks against them, his eyelashes darkening as they flutter again and again.

He looks if anything more terrified, with their faces pressed so close, but the muscular tension of his body eases just slightly, and Liz whispers, "lie still, I won't let you die, lie still for me, Red" over and over, until it feels like the words are meaningless.

"Lizzie," he manages again, "Help me, Lizzie," and there's something so helpless, so desperate, as if he's drowning before her eyes, sinking with his face upturned for that last, longing breath before the water closes over him.

"Stay with me, Red, stay with me," she tells him, speaking faster as he blinks at her, his eyes going hazy. The blood from his mouth is slowing, his face is so white.

"Please, Red, stay with me, relax, just stay with me," she says again, and driven by impulse she lifts her forehead briefly and presses kisses to his eyebrows, his nose, the outer corner of each of his eyes.

His eyes roll once more, then he lapses momentarily into unconsciousness.

"He's fine, he's fine," says one of the techs hurriedly as Liz lifts her blood-spattered, tear-stained face from Red's. "Good job. Almost there. Just keep him calm until he's in surgery."

Liz tries to loosen her grip from the metal railing of the stretcher and for a moment she can't; she's clinging so tightly it feels like her hands have cramped permanently into that position. At last she manages to get one filthy hand free, reaches out to stroke the curve of his head very gently.

She's never touched him like this, her bloody fingers trembling as they trace smooth skin, then fuzz, then the bristle of his short, silvery hair. His eyelashes flutter, and she presses her forehead against his once again, a little harder now, more confidently.

"Lie still, Red, lie still," she whispers, and perhaps he hears her, because the fluttering slows, and she closes her eyes for a moment, gathering her strength for the moment they will arrive at the hospital, and the noise, and his pain.

***

Red wakes into the terror of a strange, dimly lit room, bound and pierced through by something terribly sharp, and as he thrashes his head from one side to the other, he can't find the dark, reassuring face of Dembe anywhere.

"Lie still, Red, lie still."

There's a hand on his forehead, and then the feel of a soft cheek pressed to his own, lips against his ear.

"Lie still, you're in hospital, everything's fine now."

Lizzie.

Hospital.

Drowning?

Red remembers panic, the visceral clench of his own fear.

He remembers begging for help.

"Hurts," he mumbles, and feels Liz pressing something into his left hand.

"Press it when you need more," she whispers, her hand covering his, guiding his thumb down on the plastic button. 

The sharp pain recedes, replaced by the memory of pleading with her, his dignity stripped away by his body's struggle to breathe, to stay alive.

Lifting his head from his pillow with an effort that may well be unwise, Red blinks his eyes and spares a glance for his tethered body, tubes and wires and thin hospital sheets. His shoulders are bare, his arms arranged at his sides on top of the covers. No handcuffs, just wide padded belts, but he's been strapped securely to the bed. 

"Off." He's having trouble forming words, and his throat is so sore. His breath smells of dried blood, his body of worse than that, but Liz bends close without any evidence of a reaction. He twitches his fingers.

"Off."

"You have to lie still. You can't move, or you'll pull out your stitches."

Liz tilts her head, her face coming so close he can only see her eyes, not her mouth.

"Red, do you understand?"

He nods.

"Off."

She unbuckles the straps, and the tension in him begins to ease.

Not a prisoner. Just restrained for medical reasons.

"Lizzie?"

"Yes, Red?"

He wants to ask her so many questions. He wants to explain. Red blinks up at her, trying to find ways to say everything he needs to say in words of one syllable.

His memories are so garbled, so fragmentary. He thinks he remembers Liz screaming at him. Pushing him. Kissing him.

Red closes his eyes, and she lays her hand across his forehead once again.

That can't be right.

"Kisses?" he mumbles, pushing the little button again and again. 

As Red descends once more into sleep, his mouth tilts open in astonished wonder as he feels soft lips covering his, kiss after kiss interspersed with "lie still, Red, sleep now, sleep for me." 

It makes nearly dying worth it.


	6. Give Her Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, M, PWP. Not fluffy. Based on a one word story from the FB LS group from a couple of days ago.

The knocking wakes him from an unusually deep sleep.

Raymond Reddington pulls on a floor length, cream cashmere robe and trudges to the door of the hotel suite he shares with Dembe, who is currently sleeping in a medicated daze after an unpleasant altercation with two large men who didn’t want to pay Red for the merchandise they had just delivered.

He opens the heavy door just a crack.

As expected, it is Elizabeth Keen. Fully awake now, he blinks at the ravaged look on her face, the evidence of tears smudging the make-up around her eyes to a grayish smear.

“Red.”

He lets her in and bolts the door as she stands wavering, her back to the room, not removing her long black overcoat, unbuttoned over tight black tights and a loose black tunic. 

He gives her an inquiring look.

“It’s Tom – he’s dead!”

Red feels a little sick. He thought the man who called himself Tom Keen was long gone. More secrets. Liz always has secrets.

He reaches out for her hands, very gently.

“He died to save me!” she exclaims, tears filling her eyes once again. “They came to the motel, and he bought me time ….”

Red releases her hands and reaches out to hold her. Her hair smells like French perfume and cigarette smoke. She feels so tiny in his embrace.

“I’m so sorry, Lizzie,” he murmurs, feeling her cling to him, shaking. He’s only held her in his arms once before, and that was so different, a light touch after dinner, and he only ventured one kiss on her soft cheek.

In recent weeks, Red has been inviting her out to eat, trying to open up to her a little more away from work. He thought they might be proceeding to a closer relationship, given the warmth in her gaze following his recovery from the shooting. But obviously he was delusional. 

“I didn’t know he was still important to you,” Red whispers, more to himself than to her. But she hears him, her shoulders stiffening. Her sobbing halts with a gasp.

Liz pulls back and stares at him.

“Important?” She looks up incredulously into his eyes and Red holds still beneath her gaze, hoping she can’t see the loss spreading through him, the loathing of his own selfish pain, or if she does see, that she assumes it’s just grief for her.

“Red?” She shakes her head a little wildly, then fastens her mouth to his. Her tongue forces his lips open, her hands coming to his face to angle his jaw just as she wants.

Red clutches at her a little helplessly, feeling her hands move down, pulling his robe open. Her cold hands, Lizzie’s hands, on his warm, bare skin.

He takes a half step back with one foot, trying to brace himself, and her knee inserts itself between his, her body forcing him back until Liz has him pinned against the door.

Lightly stroking her back through her heavy jacket, trying to placate her, Red tilts his head back against the door and groans as she begins, one hand kneading the flesh of his chest, the other hand sure, almost brutal in its efficiency. She kisses him wetly, almost without respite, pausing only to lick her palm occasionally, and Red closes his eyes, allowing her anything, everything. 

He’d give her the world, the moon and the stars. Red can’t deny Liz what she wants, even these raw, frantic touches, the rough, almost impersonal way she’s using him, so unlike the intimacy he’s desperately longed for that it feels surreal. 

At the last, she takes him in both hands, kissing him fiercely with her tongue moving in rhythm with her touch, and it’s achingly, painfully good, his knees almost collapsing beneath him at the relief.

Liz steps back, pulls the front of his robe closed, ties the belt tight as he pants for breath with his back braced against the door.

“He’s not important, Red, he’s dead,” she tells him in a low, bitter tone.

Their eyes meet, and Red can see the arousal in her eyes, her lips swollen from kissing him, the hectic high color still painting her cheekbones.

She puts one hand on the doorknob.

“Let me out,” she says.

Red heaves himself away from the door, trembling beneath the heat of her gaze. 

“Lizzie?” he says, not bothering to hide how shaken he is. Trying to find the right words to make her stay.

“You’re important to me,” she responds. “You.”

Somehow the words are both a sneer and a declaration of intent. Possessive, Red can’t help but shudder pleasurably at that, but something more, something darker.

Liz pulls the door open, gives him one last look, and she’s gone.


	7. When Dinosaurs Roamed the Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, fluff

"Daddy, why did the dinosaurs die?"

The little boy is holding his father's hand, occasionally leaning to the side and almost swinging from it, allowing the gentle tug to pull him closer before drifting apart again.

They both pause and look up at the skeleton.

"Their time was past," says the father quietly. "It was time for other animals to take their place."

The little boy squints up at the bony protrusions, the armored tail, the massive feet.

"But they were so big and strong," he protests. "Why didn't they fight?"

"Because sometimes the way to win, is to stop fighting," his father tells him, tousling his hair fondly. "Ready for some ice cream?"

Raymond Reddington leads his dark-haired little son out of the museum, meets Elizabeth Reddington with their twin baby girls at the foot of the steps. She's pushing the stroller back and forth with one foot, reading and sipping a tall travel mug of coffee.

"Ready to go home?" she asks, running an impartially fond eye over them both.

"Daddy promised me ice cream!" the little boy announces.

Liz rolls her eyes as Red adjusts his fedora somewhat self-consciously.

"Then let's start walking," she responds, taking Red's arm as he begins pushing the stroller, their son clinging to her other hand, his eyes raised to the sky.

"Birds used to be dinosaurs, right?"

The little family pauses, eyes turned up to the sky. Even the red-headed babies blink at the sliver of blue visible above the towering buildings that surround them.

Two pigeons circle, then depart.

Liz strokes her son's hair very gently.

"They're happy being birds, now. There's nothing like the joy of flight."

Over the heads of their children, Red and Liz exchange a secret, contented smile. Sweeter than ice cream, this new life together. And all the happy days to come.


	8. Behind The Curtain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, M, short.

Twice a week, when she's not on assignment, Elizabeth Keen swims laps at a small private gym near her office.

She carries a small black nylon duffel, changes in a toilet stall, and passes through a tiled room with a shower before entering the pool.

The shower room holds a secret.

A concealed passage, a small, impassive woman wearing a blue one piece swim suit, swim cap, and goggles.

Twin to Liz in almost every way.

She swims. Liz ascends the stairs.

***

Raymond Reddington looks up as the small door swings open and Liz enters the tiny, hidden room, a room dominated by a messy king-size bed illuminated only by the rectangular skylight two stories above.

He's already undressed, sprawling on his belly to read as he waits for her, and he deliberately just glances at her for a moment over his shoulder as she shuts the door.

His legs spread wide, the sunlight turning the fair hair of his thighs and calves fiery, glinting on the scarred tissue of his back that she knows so intimately.

"Oh god, Red, you've been doing more squats!" she exclaims, leaning down and running one hand over the curve of his perfectly muscled ass as she tugs off her swim cap and goggles with the other.

Red grins smugly at her, rolling onto his side and motioning her to join him on the bed.

Liz peels off the swim suit and drops it to the floor.

"I have missed you like the deserts miss the rain," she exclaims, crawling onto the bed, sliding her body close to his and taking his mouth in a deep long kiss before releasing him with a sigh of satisfaction.

He chuckles, stroking her cheek and then tucking a loose curl behind her ear. Visibly responding to her evident delight.

"Red, I still want you every bit as much as I did that first day we met," she tells him, tipping her head back to allow him access to the sensitive curve of her throat.

"As much as the first day you saw me in the box?" he responds, his practiced hands on her body arousing her as quickly as possible. They have forty minutes, no more.

"Oh, I chose the right pair of slacks, didn't I?" she smirks at him, her nails raking his skin gently with just the right pressure, in all the right places.

Red groans and kisses her mouth again. Gives her hips a little tug, as if to pull her atop him.

"No, let me reward you for all those squats," she responds, rolling onto her back and pulling him to follow, her nails sliding suggestively up the back of his thighs.

"They still don't suspect anything, do they?" he asks her, holding his breath for a moment as their bodies join, Liz almost purring as she opens her mouth for more kisses.

"You always worry about that, but we'll be fine," she assures him.

The FBI has bugged her apartment, her car, even her clothing.

There's something in the way Red and Liz work together so perfectly, as if they've known each other forever, that has aroused official suspicion. But it has never matured into any proof.

They're too careful. It never will.


	9. Images

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, M, fragment. A paean.

Adopted children often have no images of their progenitors. No touch or vision of a hand like their own to recall. 

Nothing that truly resembles them, save the imagined connections to their foster or adoptive parents. 

The private stories they tell themselves late at night.

I look like him. 

I have the exact same color eyes she does.

The broken, futile imaginings that a blood connection somehow exists.

Liz wanted to adopt a child. She came so close. Thank god for Red.

His fingers at her hip bones as she stretches out on his bed. Not satisfied with her soft, soft skin, but pressing deeper, feeling for muscle or bone. Her body leaner, harder as she over-trains, skips meal after meal. 

She loves the fat on him beyond all measure, the plump curves of his torso, tender tiny nipples set in the pale curves of flesh full as breasts on a woman, lightly furred, and below the little paunch with its line of hair, the thick fleshy expanse of his groin forming a sensitive swell between his protruding hipbones. The light feathery hair kinked above and below, like a halo that glistens in the pale moonlight.

He's no boy, to rise like a panting dog at her caress, but he curves up slowly in a glorious, heavy arc, head flared as if scenting her mouth descending to meet him, her tongue longing for that first taste.

If she were still unbroken, still a woman to want children, Liz would want his babies. 

She would pour his beauty out into the world, again, again, the glistening joy of him given new form.

Because Red fills her mind as completely as he satiates her desires, pounding, pounding, like an endless knocking at door after door, doors that open on ever more intense, unfolding sensations: love, love, love.


	10. Rejection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, angst, pre-S2 E22

"This changes everything."

Liz shakes her head in small, jerky motions, as if she could rattle her memories around in her head and thereby cause them to change. 

"What I remembered, Red? I don't want it to be true."

Red just stands still, waiting for her judgment. He's done so much to keep this from her, hoped he would have more time before the last blocks implanted deep in her memory dissolved.

"I didn't want you to remember - to see them like that."

His voice is low, etched with sadness. He can't keep it off his face, either, although he's not weeping. Not yet.

"Where do we go from here?"

Her face turns to him, her blue eyes wide like a child seeking the one right answer.

Red can barely breathe. If she had asked him this question before she remembered the truth, he still wouldn't have been willing to answer it honestly. 

"You need to leave the country, Lizzie."

That's not the question she was asking. Red expects anger, but her face softens instead.

"Will you come with me?"

Red hardens his resolve.

"We'll take my jet, yes."

He said "we." That was probably a mistake. 

"I have an extensive choice of safe houses for you," he adds, aware that his hands are still hanging limply at his sides. He fears they will shake if he does more than hold them in place.

Or reach out to grab Liz, pull her into his arms.

She needs his help, his strength, not his weakness. The FBI can't be allowed to conclude that she turned to the Concierge of Crime for any reason beyond desperation.

With his help, Liz can refute the espionage allegations, although it will take some time.

Some more personal relationship? She's already been suspected of caring too much for him, even though again and again he's made it clear that his interest is mere flirtation, as natural to his character as breathing, lavished first on Meera, and then on Samar, as well as any number of his associates.

Red needs to reject whatever she's offering, and decisively.

"Come along, Lizzie. I have a great deal to do in the next two days, and dropping you off somewhere safe is only the first item on a very long list."

She blinks at him, and then her face closes up tight, like a morning glory when the sun moves on. Behind his mask of indifference, he clings to the expression that preceded it, a hopeful little smile, a dimple, those liquid blue eyes.

"Somewhere English-speaking, please, Red," she assents crisply. "A beach would be nice."

Red gives her a firm nod, bites his lip at her answering smile. All business now, as if that brief moment, when the possibility of more seemed to hover between them, had never occurred.

"Certainly," he promises her. "You'll be sipping a caipirinha in a lovely little expat colony by tomorrow morning."

He can imagine Liz strolling on the beach in her bikini as he flies off to begin the process of assembling a team to exonerate her, even if he never sees her dressed that way. He'll be providing her new wardrobe, after all. That bikini will be bright red.

Liz gives him a curious look. Her profiler's mind, always in motion.

Red clears his throat, banishes those enticing, impossibly unreachable dreams, and replaces his hat on his head before he gestures towards the door.

"Shall we go?"


	11. Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, T, darker. Post S2 E22.

Liz closes her eyes and rests her head on Red's broad shoulder. He smells faintly of his usual cologne, but also something a little stronger.

Clean, recent sweat. As if he has been rushing, worrying. 

His face so infinitely sad when she told him that she remembered that terrible night.

Red tried to conceal her true self from her, but Liz knows who and what she is, and always has been.

A monster.

She feels the tension in his frame as he holds his shoulder very still beneath the weight of her head, cushioning her from the jouncing of the small van. He assumes she's sleeping. But she's reviewing her last conversation with him, the way Red touched her, held her hand.

Liz took what she wanted, what she needed, from Tom.

She doesn't know Jacob. Doesn't want to. He has nothing to offer her.

If she asked Red to drive her to the harbor right now, he would. Even if it put him, put them both, at risk.

But Liz does know Tom. He's long gone.

Which leaves her with Red. The only way to protect her friends on the task force is to abandon them without looking back. Make it seem as if hurting them would have no effect on her.

All she can do is look forward. Liz remembers the moment she chose to pull the trigger. It was when Connelly threatened Red.

She'll never let the cabal have him. Never.

The monster is out of her cage. And this time, she has company.

***

Red stares forward, trying to smile as memories flow over him with every street they pass.

There is the corner with the flower stand, the pirogi cart. Two blocks down, a wonderful little restaurant, owned by the nephew of the man who opened it two decades before.

Will he ever see this city again?

Liz is leaning on his shoulder, pretending to sleep. He can't begin to fathom what she must be thinking or feeling.

He can barely believe she's here with him, accepting his help. Nothing must ever compromise that. It's all he has left to lay at her feet.

"Red?"

"Yes, Lizzie?"

She slips her hand into his before he can wipe his palm on his leg. Squeezes his hand tight.

"We're staying together, right?"

He glances over, but her face is turned down, as if she's studying their joined hands. Her strong, pale hand caught within his longer, thinner fingers, wrinkled with age but still serviceable.

"What do you mean?"

"You left Dembe behind. You're not going to leave me too, are you?"

Red shakes his head, briefly speechless. 

"No, Lizzie. I'll be with you as long as you want, from this point onward."

Such an idle promise. She'll remember more of that night, and then she won't hesitate to send him away.

Red has no sin eater. He doesn't even know how she can bring herself to hold his hand.

***

The city streets eventually give way to suburbs, the gray cement of the expressway curving on and on.

Red's assurance that he wouldn't leave her sounded curiously hollow. Thank goodness she didn't let Tom bite her, not even once.

Best to do this as soon as they arrive at the safe house. Red is so weary. Liz knows that she needs whatever advantage she can muster.

"This is where we get out."

Red climbs from the van first, looks around before he holds the door for her.

A nondescript alley, windowless, the high brick fence on one side, garages on the other.

The driver sticks his hand out the window, pushes the button on the remote before releasing it to Red.

"Nice."

Liz hurries into the small, empty space of the one car garage, stands waiting in the dim light of the single overhead bulb by the flight of three unpainted cement steps as Red shuts the garage door behind them. The sound of the van retreats into the distance.

"It's open," he tells her, and so she precedes him inside.

A tall, narrow condominium, furnished in expensive but ugly modern taste. The air smells clean but stale.

"We'll be here less than 24 hours," he tells her, setting his hat on the narrow, black marble bar in the kitchen and shrugging out of his overcoat. "Do you need to get some more sleep?"

Her heart is pounding and her hands are icy cold.

"Show me around, will you?"

Red gives her a curious look, but gestures at the stairs. Liz leads the way, careful not to swing her hips despite the rising swell of her arousal, like a huge wave gathering inside her, with each step more and more aware of Red following close behind her.

"Please take the back bedroom, it will be quieter."

He gestures down the hall.

Liz cocks one eyebrow at him and waits.

Red gives her a curious look, then precedes her into the room, flipping on the low bedside lights, then sticking his head into the bathroom.

"Clean, and quite empty. Satisfied, Lizzie?"

"I plan to be."

She steps forward, squaring her shoulders to position herself between him and the door.

"Yes?" 

Such an ironic tone in his voice, but those deep shadows under his eyes speak to his need for rest, just as the way he's worrying the inside of his mouth betrays his uncertainty.

"I don't need sleep, Red."

Liz pulls off her top, watches his eyes as he reacts to her lack of a bra.

"Lizzie?" He sounds absolutely shattered.

"My world is gone," she tells him, kicking out of her boots without dropping his gaze. "My friends hate me."

Liz pulls down her pants and thong together, tramples them into the thick, ugly Berber carpet as she steps out of them. 

"I'm a traitor, and a murderer, and the cabal doesn't want me as badly as I want you."

He rocks backwards on his heels as she takes a step towards him.

"I want you, Red, and I know you want me."

He's not reaching for her, not yet, but there's a faint trembling that begins in his fingertips, the fine hairs on the back of his wrists quivering and catching light.

Liz licks her lips.

"This is where you say yes to me, Red. Yes to us."

Deliberately, she rubs her hands down her bare thighs, bending forward slightly, then lingers at her knees. The gesture he made on the bench, before he reached for her thigh, then her hand.

He swallows, then his wary face goes soft, and it's suddenly all she can do not to relent.

"Yeah," he says, the word pregnant with feeling, just as it was before. But this time he's smiling incredulously, a radiant smile she's never seen before.

A smile that makes her suddenly wonder if love is possible, even for monsters like her.

Then his fingers lift to his tie, fumbling uncharacteristically with the knot, driving all thought away, and Liz gives herself to the wave, pulling Red inexorably along with her.


	12. Not Just Jealous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, angst, T. One shot, fragment.

Red stares forward, smiling faintly, as Liz lays her head on his shoulder and falls asleep.

He usually finds it easy to conceal his true feelings. He just arranges the correct expression on his face, and plays the role he's strategically selected in advance.

She spent the preceding night with Tom Keen.

On his boat.

Almost as horrifying to Red as the thought of Liz making love with the man who beat and betrayed her, was that long night of wondering whether she would sail away with Tom in the morning.

She told Red, she promised him, that she would stay and fight.

The undeniable fact that she allowed Red to spend those miserable, sleepless hours wondering if she had changed her mind, unable to modify his plans, unwilling to make either of them look foolish, showed Red that she wasn't thinking about him at all.

His people have been primed to facilitate his escape, her escape, for days now. He hasn't told them anything beyond her name, to ensure they will extract her if somehow he can't.

Red isn't just jealous. He's furious.

***

The seaplane bounces skyward, calypso music echoing from the cockpit. With the ease of long practice, Red tunes out the sound and leans his head back, satisfied that within a few hours they will be hidden from their enemies on a remote island, fully stocked with everything he has requested in advance. Small, isolated, and safe.

"Red?"

Liz looks around anxiously, and he suddenly identifies the expression on her face.

"No!"

He pulls his hat out of range and leans down, extracting a large baggie from the briefcase at his feet and pouring the multi-colored pills from it into his lap before holding it out to her.

"Use this," he advises her.

She vomits with her head bent almost to her knees, then seals up the bag.

Red pulls his handkerchief from his breast pocket and bundles up the pills before tucking them back in the briefcase.

"You never get sick like that, do you?" Liz says to him, in a voice that makes it sound like a character flaw.

"Have some water, Elizabeth," he responds, twisting around, then handing her a bottle from the box behind their seats.

She takes a sip.

"Slowly," he advises her. 

He's made so many promises to himself. To care for her and keep her safe. Not to pressure or rush her.

Red wants Tom Keen dead with a passion that surprises him, inured as he is to the constant ebb and flow of the criminal alliances in which he's currently enmeshed.

He doesn't care that Tom has been useful. He not only doesn't want Tom to see Elizabeth Keen, ever again - he'd prefer a little time away from her, himself.

***

Liz sits close beside Red, holding her body carefully aloof.

He saved her from arrest, got her out of the country just as he promised.

Why does she feel as if he's angry with her? Why does he keep calling her Elizabeth?

Red looked so sad when she confessed to having recovered some memories of the fire, that she can't bear to ask him anything further. Not yet.

Although that image of him screaming, his youthful face contorted in agony? She will have to ask him about it, eventually.

He can't possibly know about the way she contacted first Cooper, then Tom, then finally Ressler. Trying to find some alternative to throwing herself on Red's mercy.

After all the progress the two of them have made together, she's brought them back to square one. The helpless young female, guided and manipulated and protected by the older, more powerful male.

It disgusts her.

Setting the baggie on the floor, Liz stares out the side window of the plane at the swirl of cloud. She wanted to be his equal.

Perhaps that's why he's angry. In addition to seeing all his elaborate plans for the FBI brought to naught, she's proven herself unworthy.

****

The island isn't what she expected.

Raymond Reddington, even more so.

Their villa is on the coast, with a private swimming pool and a view of the water, but it's not some blissful seclusion.

The small town that surrounds the high stucco wall of their compound is no rich man's retreat; its narrow dirt roads teem with noise and life, the harbor filled with small fishing boats, encircled by bars and tiny, smoky restaurants.

Red is up and gone early every morning; he often returns long after the uniformed maids have cleared away her dinner dishes.

He's on the water mostly, fishing or diving; his face and arms darkening to a pale gold that emphasizes the beauty of his sharp green gaze.

He dresses formally for dinner when they eat together, but otherwise Red lives in worn shorts or swim trunks, and a loose shirt, half-buttoned.

He's so comfortable in his own skin, here, speaking whatever language best suits his companions of the day.

Spanish, French, Portuguese.

She's seen the seaplane twice since they arrived, a few large white yachts anchored offshore for a day or two before moving on.

Tom would be so envious at the size of them. 

Saying goodbye to Tom, trying to send him off into his uncertain future with some measure of comfort - that night in his arms took everything Liz had to give, and more. She knew her ex-husband would tell her not to come with him. She'd already searched the cabin, taken note of the type and amount of food stowed in the galley. Just enough for him.

But she gave Tom, like one last, fragile gift, her offer to leave with him, and thereby the dignity being the one to say no. 

Tom saved Red's life. He delayed his flight to help her, fought at her side. She's glad he has a chance to be Jacob now. To start anew.

Liz doesn't know what words she could possibly say to make things right with the polite, yet distant man Red has become. What it will take to regain his respect, his trust.

She only hopes she can become Lizzie again to Red, someday.


	13. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, M, angst.

Even five years later, the memories still return. At odd, random times, like sparks from a dying fire, their baleful glow illuminating the corners of this dangerous new life she's chosen.

That she and Red have chosen, together.

He comes to her, always.

She never turns Red away, but sometimes she makes him wait. On the doorstep, with his glass of scotch by the fireplace, in her bed as she struggles to turn away from the bathroom mirror and unlock the door.

His expensive bottles of liquor line her kitchen shelves.

His dry cleaning hangs in the hall closet, whisked in and out by Dembe, who surely has a key, although she's never caught him in her home.

Liz can't lie to Red, goes silent instead when she wants to, needs to. She doesn't work for the FBI any more; they call her a contractor, send her a check every month.

He's in and out of the country so often that it's a good thing he mostly avoids passports. His pages would be filled with stamps, as his eyes are filled with stories.

A rap on the door.

Liz peeks through the tiny round hole, sees Dembe's solemn face. He'll only smile once she opens the door.

Liz lowers her weapon, unlocks and unbolts the door, flicks the alarm twice to signal her guests to the waiting men and women behind the monitors so far away. Security downstairs usually announces any visitors, deals with the alarms.

Only Dembe and Red float in and out of the building as if invisible. She's never asked how.

"Italian food," Dembe announces, heading for the kitchen with the heavy carrier bags. Red is particular about certain dishes. Liz sniffs the air as Red enters cautiously, removing his hat before meeting her eyes. Her apartment already smells like Naples.

Liz smiles at him, taking in his carefully chosen suit, his polished shoes, his newly shaven chin.

"You stopped to change on the way in?" she guesses, tilting her face to receive his kiss, their lips meeting briefly with the ease of long acquaintance, then clinging as if they were virtual strangers, their desire fresh as springtime.

She steps close into his embrace, slides her hands down his sides before tugging him even closer.

His mouth tastes like mint, which means he's had a drink on the way as well. Or maybe two; he pulls her hard against him, kissing her passionately with all the longing of more than a week spent apart.

She's responding, clutching back at him with equal fervor, when his teeth graze her bottom lip and suddenly she's shaking. Icy cold and terrified.

To his credit, Red's response is immediate.

His arms loosen, he takes half a step back, his voice so soft. His deep familiar voice, the voice that lured her back from the nightmares.

"Darling, Lizzie, sweetheart, it's only me."

His eyes are so fond, his tone so coaxing.

Liz bites her bottom lip, looks up into his loving eyes.

Red. Not Tom. Red.

She's in her own apartment, safe and clean and warm.

Dembe returns from the kitchen, proffering a glass of wine, but Red waves him away.

She breathes carefully, in and out her nose, trying to regain her calm.

Red steps back further, his hands sliding up and down her forearms, his fingers ringing her wrists and then releasing them, as if to say 'look, no handcuffs, no shackles'.

Tom did more than retaliate for his captivity on the boat, for her refusal to leave the country with him. He tracked her down and broke something in her, something that Red is piecing together like an immense puzzle, so many tiny monochrome pieces, and no pattern or end in sight.

Just today and today and today.

The days she wakes alone and works, submits her profiles through the secure connection that is her only link to the FBI.

The days she sits and reads, sometimes happily lost in another world for hours, sometimes staring at the same page without understanding it as the images unreel for her once again.

The days Red comes to her, and wakes her, and stays with her throughout the night. The good days. The measureless nights.

"Red." 

She knows him sooner now, calms more quickly. He smiles so softly at her as she puts the weapon away, the one she had pressed to his temple just a moment ago.

She's never hurt him. Although she once threw a knife at Dembe. He's learned to let Red handle these incidents.

"Are you hungry?" Red asks her.

She shakes her head. All at once she wants him, wants the kissing, the rough grip of his hands.

"Can we go to bed?" she asks him, tugging at his hand as if to lead him there at once.

Red chuckles.

"Of course. We can eat anytime."

He nods once at Dembe, who prepares to depart.

Liz leads Red into the darkness of the bedroom, begins stripping off his clothes, casting them to the floor as if revealing his skin will provide her with some answer, some measure of security.

He tolerates it, laughing a little at her urgency, then lies back naked on her bed to watch her peel off her own clothing. Not a strip tease, just layer after layer coming off until she stands before him for a moment, hands on her hips.

"Well?" she asks him, and he puts out one hand to her, then waits.

"Come and love me, Lizzie, darling," he whispers softly. "Come to bed now."

This too is ritual. She chooses.

They've managed the word 'now' for three weeks in a row. It will be time to add another of the words, soon.

Liz swallows the rising gorge of her fear.

This is Red, her passionate Red, once and forever.

She takes one step, then another. Closing the gap between them.

This could be one of the good nights. No patience required, no self-restraint. Either way, Red won't leave her. No matter what memories arise.

She's safe.


	14. Ten Years On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, angst, romance.

"The years have been kind to you, Lizzie."

Red doesn't rise to greet her as she approaches his table, her tight silk dress rustling, her high heels tapping. Liz begins to frown, then notices the level in the Scotch bottle beside his glass, one of two, the second upside down and untouched.

He's paler, heavier, his hair all silver now, but still immaculately groomed, just a trace of moisture on the top of his head, the faintest hint of sweat on his upper lip, to betray the amount he's drinking.

"It's good to see you too, Red."

Liz stands looking down at him, trying to push away her memory of the last time she saw him, both of them yelling, screaming really, at the top of their lungs.

He wanted her to crawl into a hole and hide. To stay safe.

She was on fire with the urge to protect him, to clear her name, to tear the Cabal apart at his side.

One night in bed together, one night and one long and languorous morning to be precise, and then everything imploded. 

Destroying any hope of future happiness together, torpedoed like the rest of her life. Liz knows now why Red once shook his head and muttered "Lost all that." It's as much as she can bear to say about her own past, as well.

"May I sit?"

"Make yourself comfortable."

He waves his neatly manicured fingers at the chair opposite him. His fedora sits like a sleeping cat on the seat of a third chair, pulled close to his side.

His back is to the wall, with a view of both the front and rear doors of the dark and smoky little bar.

"I will, Red, thank you."

Liz drags her chair around to sit beside him. Her bodyguards infiltrated this bar an hour ago, so she's perfectly safe, but she's not going to sit with her back to the front door, like the girl he once needed to protect.

She's a criminal power in her own sphere now, the trade in precious stones he ceded to her in Singapore long since gone both legal in some respects, and global in others.

Liz has lived on the yacht he gave her for a decade. She arranged this meeting to give him back the paperwork, and the keys. 

And also, because she's sold everything she's earned, and she's about to go to ground. To vanish into the ordinary world, abandon crime forever. 

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Lizzie?"

Liz closes her eyes for a moment, savoring that name. The one she may never hear again.

"I came to say good-bye," she tells him, shaking her head at the offer of a glass of scotch, waving the looming waitress away with a flick of her fingers.

She hopes he won't say anything to her about the reason she's making this choice, but she's braced for the possibility.

"Because of Sam?"

"Yes."

He cocks an eyebrow at her, and ten years vanishes, the way he looks at her, his face soft, waiting so patiently for her answer. That immense tenderness, the way the smell of his skin rises in her as their eyes meet, how badly she hurt him, hurt herself, in her desperate thrashing panic to stay independent and make her own choices.

"Your decision is not open to appeal?" he asks her quietly.

Red has visited Singapore over the years. Liz has marked his arrivals and departures, smoothed the way for his advances and strategems while ostensibly remaining ignorant.

He came to see Samantha. Their daughter.

Under a false name, Red served first as Sam's piano teacher, then her French tutor. Always at the home of one of her friends, never on the yacht. What he doesn't know, must never know, is that Liz told Sam about her father from the very first. Taught her to hide her knowledge, allow him to be just another adult in her life.

Once they reach their new home, Liz will tell Sam either that Red has died, or that he won't be free to see her for a very long while. That's another hard decision she needs to make.

Will she be able to gather enough information today, at this table, to make that choice with confidence?

"No. My decision is made."

His mouth is pinched, but he hasn't taken a sip of scotch since she sat down.

"You knew about my visits, then, all along?"

His red-rimmed green eyes are moist now. He understands she allowed him that contact with Sam, and now she's come to bring it to an end.

Liz glances around, feels as much as sees her bodyguards alerting all around her, the tension in the room spiraling upwards.

Sam is genuinely talented, musically. Liz owes it to her to establish a secure identity now while she's young. Find and retain a gifted piano teacher, help her to begin entering contests. She, at least, has a glorious future ahead of her.

"Of course I knew, Red. She's my kid."

His lack of a wince is more telling than if he sobbed.

"Our kid."

She speaks the word she never speaks, the word that can almost bring her to tears when she sees him say it to her, in her mind's eye. In the imaginary world where she called him and he answered, ran back to him, flung herself into his arms as soon as she knew she was pregnant.

Not the world where she had no direct contact numbers for Red, where Dembe apologized until she felt cruel even to speak when she heard his voice and not Red's yet again, hung up to spare him one more painful evasive answer.

Red gives her a curt nod of gratitude, touches the scotch bottle, turns it as if considering whether to freshen his drink.

"And if I don't want you to say good-bye? To disappear?"

His tone is light, his deep voice almost unconcerned. No threat present, it could almost pass for an idle query. Almost.

"She needs a life. She needs to be safe."

This is harder than she thought it would be. But of course, this is Raymond Reddington. Infinitely more powerful, dangerous, than he was ten years ago.

Liz allowed Red close to Samantha because she could. But once she becomes an ordinary person, albeit a very rich person, there will be no safe distance, no circling spheres of deadly protection. Bodyguards, blackmail, the intricate web of deadly favors. The concierge of crime can no longer be even peripheral to their life.

"You love her so much, you'd do anything to keep her safe."

Like the thrust of a stiletto, his words enter her, leave her icy.

"Of course."

What kind of a mother would she be, if she didn't put Sam first? Liz clamps down on the thought that follows, even as it forms. What would she want, if not for Sam?

His smile is crooked, gentle. Liz tries to catch her breath, falling down the well of her memory to the morning she stumbled away from him, sobbing, screaming, shouting. Somehow forgetting how deeply he loved her, loves her.

Red loves her, still.

Now he does flinch, his mouth moving, the corner of one eye twitching, and she remembers as the ice floods her veins that one last glance over her shoulder, the way he looked curiously self-satisfied as she fled his jet. As if he wanted her gone.

This pale, plump, self-contained billionaire. Killer, traitor, his green eyes twin to Sam's.

He tore out his own heart and handed it to her. To keep her, and later their baby, safe. She thought she was so clever.

"Costa Rica."

Liz doesn't recognize her own voice.

Red nods, just staring at her.

"You'd have to divest. Completely."

His mouth twitches up at the corners.

"Of course." His voice is so low, so hoarse.

Liz stares at the bottle, then takes a deep breath. She trusts him. She does. 

Red gives her a wry smile, passes his glass over to her.

"Take a sniff."

Liz lifts it to her nose, careful not to spill on her expensive silk dress.

"Nothing?"

He shrugs.

"Colored water, in case we're being surveilled. In the event anyone gets suspicious."

Liz fixes him with a stare. 

"You thought I would get emotional?"

He shakes his head at once.

"Oh no, Lizzie. But I knew I would."

She's lived alone for almost ten years. Put her child first, her business interests second. 

"You still want me?" She has to ask.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking that question?" he responds in a whisper, leaning toward her.

Oh god. Even the smell of his breath, the nervous twitch of his fingers drumming the table top. 

"Always," she gives him, surrendering. "Always."

His eyes come alight, and the flame jumps between them, easy as before, roaring up as they stare into each others eyes.

Costa Rica. A home with a mother and a father. And a little girl playing the piano as her parents waltz on the terrace beneath the tropical stars.


	15. Her Own Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, T, angst

"What do you mean, you're coming with me?"

Liz turns from the small day pack she is stuffing with the cheapest of the clothing Red's operatives had procured for her.

"You're not going gallivanting off alone around the globe. Not after all the trouble I've taken to smuggle you out of the country."

Red takes a swig of his scotch and smirks as Liz wrinkles her nose at him.

"And what makes you think I'll be alone?" she baits him. She's been wondering if he was aware of her night with Tom. Not that she has any idea where her ex-husband is, now.

Just a twinge at the corner of one eye. Oh, yes, he knows.

Liz has become very aware over the course of the last week that Red's interest in her has expanded from the practical to the personal.

He's tried to be discreet about it, but long nights in close quarters have made certain things clear to her.

Red wants her very badly. And she owes him far too much not to handle the situation carefully.

"You'll need protection," he says in a flat tone. 

Liz zips the day pack closed. She lifts it to feel the weight, unzips it and discards one of the three pairs of shoes.

"You don't think I can protect myself?" she asks him, stroking the smooth Italian leather of the flats with regret before setting them aside.

"Lizzie, even I can't protect myself at all times." 

She shrugs, braces herself inwardly. She's going to hurt him, but better now than later.

"Send Ezra with me, then. He'll fit right in at the hostels."

Liz has blue streaks in her hair now, chopped short and uneven, thick eyeliner and an eyebrow piercing. Her plan is to spend the next year seeing the world as cheaply as possible. Her Australian accent improves daily.

"Rather a low blow," Red comments, taking another sip of his scotch. "And he's still in federal custody."

Liz shrugs. Her new passport shaves five years off her age. 

"My plan is to stay away from both law enforcement and crime," she tells him. "I just need to decompress. I haven't had a real vacation in so long."

He frowns.

Liz tries again.

"Please, Red. Just give me a little time. I want this so badly. And I've never had the money to go anywhere."

His eyes go liquid.

"I have the email address, so I can stay in touch. I promise."

Liz has a bank card and two credit cards in the name of her putative parents. Funds enough to travel for years, far less than Red wanted to give her.

Of course Ressler must suspect that Red was involved in her flight, but they haven't been spotted together in public yet. In her absence, Red can reach out to the team, continue taking down blacklisters, perhaps renegotiate his immunity package.

Fight the Cabal without her as a liability. 

"You want to leave now? Before supper?"

Liz shrugs the pack onto her back, adjusts the straps so it hangs a little lower.

"If I get to the hostel by 6:00, dinner is included," she informs him.

Red has been ordering her favorite foods, delicious wines. But the longer she spends in this luxurious hotel suite, the more her stomach hurts.

He's been so gentle, so tender. Liz has seen Red murderous and cold, charming and flippant. She can't bear the desire lurking within his ostensibly patient gaze.

She has nothing to offer him.

No matter how enticing Red looks in his crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar open, Liz can't give in to the urge to fling herself into his arms and beg him to love her, care for her.

A partnership of equals, or nothing. Before she shot Connelly and destroyed her FBI career with that one bullet, Liz hoped she and Red were circling warily towards that eventuality. But she can't see any way that could be possible now.

He'll eventually find someone older and more sophisticated, like Madeline Pratt. Liz will become a bittersweet memory, their two years together no more than an anecdote.

"And if I don't allow you to leave?"

He's just standing there in the doorway, blocking her exit from the room.

Liz looks at him and sighs. She prepared for it, but she really did not want this confrontation.

"Red, I slept with Tom so he would agree to leave without betraying you."

Red's face hardens. All at once he looks impossibly old, as if something intangible has been withdrawn from her.

"No, he didn't ask me to. But I knew that he'd listen to my request if he thought he'd ensnared me, once again."

She shrugs, takes a step towards the door. Towards Red.

"You need to understand what I'm willing to do, to be free."

His eyes widen as she deliberately licks her lips.

"Red, I'm going to kiss you good-bye, and walk out that door. But that's all I'm going to do."

Now he actually folds in on himself a little, his shoulders slumping as he steps aside.

"That won't be necessary, Lizzie," he mutters.

Her heart thumps painfully as she steps forward again.

"Thank you for everything you've done, Red," she says, laying her cheek against his, then pressing her lips very softly to his clean-shaven cheek. Feeling the brush of his sideburns, smelling the familiar scent of his expensive cologne.

Safety. She feels so safe with him.

Then she gives him a firm nod and leaves with quick steps, not allowing herself to look back.


	16. Avid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, fluff, silliness. Involves food.

It was purely an accident that she noticed him staring. 

Liz was licking a melted fleck of chocolate from her thumb as she examined the large, glossy photograph Red was showing her, when a stray reflection showed her his avid stare. His eyes were hooded, almost distant, by the time she managed to look up.

Just a moment in time, really, and she had finished her last pain au chocolate, so Liz had no way to test her hypothesis until more than a week later.

She was eating cherry sours from a small clear plastic bag Aram had presented to her in thanks for her support of one of his more esoteric theories, and with each bite, even each nibble, color advanced and receded across the exposed skin of Red's neck below his firm jaw and above the smoothly ironed collar of his expensive shirt.

Liz smiled on the inside, and put her plan into action without delay.

***

It was bitterly cold, not wet, but icy all the same, with a wind that snatched at Red's olive green scarf, the uncharacteristic wool driving cap pulled low over his forehead and the long thick coat that he immediately shed before seating himself opposite her in the small cafe she chose because they served extravagant coffee drinks, topped with real whipped cream.

Liz felt completely foolish, but she ordered one on the weekend and carried it home to practice in the mirror.

"To what do I owe the honor, Lizzie?" he asked her, setting his cap on the table with all the ceremony reserved for a fedora, before giving Dembe at the next table a reassuring glance.

Liz shrugged.

"You're always inviting me to the places you like - I thought it was time I returned the favor."

Red gave her a somewhat suspicious look, but opened his menu, becoming immediately entranced by the elaborate confections on offer.

Not just coffees, but a variety of cakes, from a simple bundt cake served with tiny wild strawberries, to elaborate layers filled with ganache and custard, and topped with spun sugar or toasted nuts. 

Liz looked over to see that Dembe had already ordered. He gave her a thumbs up sign of approval.

She selected her coffee, smiled as Red shifted briefly into German to solicit advice from their waitress before ordering not one, but three different desserts.

And black coffee.

Liz just sat and watched him, close shaven with his neatly trimmed hair and sideburns glinting, not a hair out of place. Tidy and well-groomed as a pampered cat, and for a moment that thought, Red a tomcat, Liz on the prowl, just flipping her tail at him and sauntering away, caught so hard at her, so unexpectedly, that she almost choked.

She covered her giggle with a cough.

"Are you all right, Lizzie?" His olive-green eyes, reflecting the rich color of his scarf, were warm with an impartial concern.

She fanned her face with one hand, nodded. Tried to get hold of her breath.

There's another reason she chose this cafe.

The silver-framed mirrors that expanded the small space.

She had placed no less than five tiny, wireless cameras in range, waving her FBI badge at the restaurant staff who arrived earlier to open the cafe.

"This will help."

Liz looked up with a wide smile to see the waitress approaching with their tray.

Her tall glass mug of flavored coffee, topped with a spiral of whipped cream, dominated the array of plates containing Red's selections.

He blinked at her as she reached for the mug, tasted the dark chocolate shaved atop the peak of the whipped cream.

"Yes?"

Liz raised her eyebrows at Red, ignoring the line of whipped cream now decorating her upper lip.

He cleared his throat, a deep sound, and visibly gritted his teeth.

Liz leaned across the table, looked down at his desserts.

"Oh, these all look really good," she exclaimed. "Maybe you can feed me a bite of each one? Just to taste."

She licked at the whipped cream on her upper lip, managing to smear but not remove it. Then she reached for the glass mug again, closed her eyes as if savoring the flavor, and tried to ensure there was whipped cream at the corners of her mouth as well.

Liz had never seen Red remove his scarf and fold it on his lap like that before.

"Of course, Lizzie."

The rough edge to his voice curled through her, but his hands tensed, his knife and fork trembling for just a moment.

Liz rolled her eyes, glanced at his lap again, then took another carefully calibrated lick of her whipped cream.

"You're welcome to a taste," Red offered in a chastened tone.

Liz gave him her best version of a good old boy grin, and opened her mouth, licking the whipped cream away with a few deft movements of her tongue.

"Load me up," she instructed him happily, her lips parted, then flicked her lashes at him as she focused her gaze down at the pastries, anticipating the footage of his discomfiture to come.

If she ever needed leverage, Liz planned to be so prepared.


	17. Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, fluff. Post S2 E22.

"How can you spend so much time trying on hats?"

Red frowns inwardly at the petulant tone in his companion's voice. Liz is seated behind him with her legs crossed, swinging her foot in irritation as she watches him admiring himself in the mirror. 

He misses Dembe with a vengeance. They have barely been in this particular store for an hour.

He's trying to teach her how to shop. Apparently, the lesson isn't being well-received.

Red tries again.

"Lizzie, a man who pays no thought to his attire is a miserable wretch indeed."

She scowls at him. "Is that Dickens?"

Red rolls his eyes at her. "Phantom McCoy, a famous haberdasher and spy."

"Red, I don't care that much about what I wear. Practical and washable, that's what I prefer."

Not that she doesn't look lovely with dark knits outlining her slender form, but Red needs to make his point before he completely loses patience with her.

They've only been on the run for a week. That would never do.

He turns and gives her his most charming smile, allowing it to turn mean just as she begins to smile back.

"Lizzie, why do I dress like this?" He spreads his hands wide, as if inviting her to study his custom-tailored three piece suit, his immaculately coordinated shirt and tie. Liz re-crosses her legs in the opposite direction and stares at him for a moment, allowing her gaze to rake insolently down his body. He can feel her eyes on him like a gust of hot air.

"Because you're rich, and arrogant, and a narcissist about your looks?"

That surprises a genuine huff of disbelieving laughter from him. How can Liz think that about his appearance?

Red is very conscious of his own attractions. While money, power, and a certain, very calculated display of confidence based on his past prowess in the bedroom may be numbered among them, his looks have always played against him.

He was overly thin and nervous as a youth, and has been forced early in adulthood to come to terms with his horrific scars, weight gain and hair loss.

Appearance is just a tool, a weapon. One he wants Liz to be able to wield to her own advantage.

"You've noticed how Dembe, for example, dresses?"

Liz nods, her brow creasing.

"He's dressing down to emphasize his role in relation to me." Red watches her mouth twist in annoyance; she's starting to pick up some of his facial expressions, and that one indicates that she's tiring of this guessing game.

"Dembe is a millionaire, with a legitimate and respected identity outside my world, but he's presenting himself as my bodyguard."

Liz uncrosses her legs and leans forward.

"So, what you've been trying to tell me, very tactfully, is that I don't dress correctly to be in your company."

Red purses his lips and nods. "Not in public."

She gives a bemused little shake of her head.

"I suppose you'd like me to change my hair and make-up as well?"

Red favors her with an apologetic smile. "Well, yes, that is my intention."

"So I could dress as a bodyguard, or else?"

She breaks off and eyes him speculatively. Red holds still beneath her lingering gaze with an effort. It feels as if she's trying to penetrate his clothing to stare at his bare body. 

Her blue eyes on his skin. Her small, strong hands. Far too long since someone he trusts has come so close. Red wrenches his mind back to their conversation.

"What if I want to dress as your associate? To stand at your side?"

He didn't expect her to be ready for that step for months, years, if ever. It would destroy any hope of her ever rejoining the FBI.

Not that he hasn't thought about it, almost obsessively. Dembe has no interest in being trained as his successor.

"You would start by selecting at least five designers. Have the pieces you like copied, in the finest fabrics available."

"Why not just buy them, directly? We have more than enough money for that."

We. His heart nearly stops at that one word.

"If you remember, Ms. Navabi already pointed out the inherent risks in that approach?"

Liz smiles and shakes her head.

"Samar will be so jealous - she loves expensive things, especially shoes."

Red chuckles.

"You can purchase more shoes than Imelda Marcos, if you want," he assures her fondly.

"Who?"

Red sighs, suppressing the urge to slap his own face in sarcastic response. She's beautiful, she's deadly, she's just admitted that, incredibly, she finds his aging, damaged body attractive. He'd burn down the world for her.

But she's so damn young.


	18. Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, M, angst

Elizabeth Keen pulls the covers over her face as soon as her bedroom door closes behind Raymond Reddington.

Another night. The same story.

She wants to scream, or weep, or do both simultaneously.

Instead, she clenches her jaw and remains silent, remembering, until she slips at last into solitary sleep.

***

"Lizzie, you don't ... you can't .. want this." 

That tiny disparaging flick of Red's wrist is enough to indicate not only his body, but everything else about him.

Should she nod or shake her head?

Liz is tipsy from a late night in a Kingston pub, where she finally inveigled Red into dancing with her.

"I want you," she manages, feeling herself wavering on her black patent spike heels and forcing her eyes open to blink rather owlishly at Red. 

They are standing in the foyer of their hotel suite, their separate bedroom doors standing open, Dembe making himself scarce behind the third, closed door on the far side of the elegantly decorated sitting room.

Red's face softens, and he reaches for her face, trails his fingers along her jaw.

"Go to your room and wait for me, Lizzie," he says in a low, deep voice she's never heard from him before.

Liz reaches for his lapels as he starts to back away, presses her lips to his in a brief kiss.

Then she makes her way to her room, drops all her clothing on the floor and collapses naked onto her bed, face down, to wait.

And wait.

***

Red lets himself into her room and his eyes immediately seek out her naked form, sprawled in a sound sleep on the bed. A slanting bar of light emerges from the bathroom, and he steps carefully over her discarded clothing as he approaches the bed.

He's showered, and freshly shaved, clad only in his new silk robe, dark green and lined in custom dyed velvet.

Did she really mean what she said? Watching her sleep, it seems like something from a fever dream, or an early morning fantasy, stroking himself in the lonely gray light before dawn.

Before their next flight, safe house, temporary names. More than six months, the heaven of spending every day with her, keeping her safe, and the hell of spending every day with her, longing for her touch.

She smiles at him, dances with him, shuts her door on him every night without any hint of regret.

Until tonight.

He thought she was pining for Tom. 

He's not sure what disgusts him the most, that he'd settle for crumbs from the table of that traitor, so undeserving of her love, or that he's so grateful for every scrap of affection she bestows on him.

Red is scrubbed clean, as presentable as he can be, and still he's so afraid of her eyes on him, even her hands, for all that he longs for her touch.

She rolls onto her back and smiles lazily at him. He's never seen anything so enticing, her small, bare breasts shifting as she opens her arms wide.

"Come here, Red."

He can't refuse her this. He can't refuse her anything.

He'll do his best to be worthy of this night in her arms.

***

Liz increasingly feels languid as if she's being drugged, as if the very air she breathes carries some strange intoxicant. 

Red comes to her almost every night, spends hours tenderly, mercilessly dismantling her nerves. She can still feel his touch when she wakes in the morning, pleasurably sore and satiated. 

She always wakes alone.

He's not the lover she expected, not at all, and she can't figure out why.

Red is never spontaneous. He always showers and shaves before coming to her darkened room in his robe. He kisses and holds her afterward until she sleeps, then departs.

She doesn't know what type of underwear he prefers, or what he looks like asleep. She's never been invited into his bedroom.

His passionate glances during the day seem to scorch her skin with promise, but he waits until late in the evenings before offering her more than kisses. Never in public.

There have been no protestations of love between them, although he's ascertained through words as well as touches exactly what pleases her most. She's never spoken so openly to a man before, but Red makes everything in bed so easy. So inevitable.

He doesn't just arouse her with his hands and his mouth, bringing her to peak after peak in a way she's never responded to a lover before, but he also spends hours massaging her, his strong fingers kneading away the strains and stresses of the day, from gentle circles on her scalp to rubbing and stretching each of her toes. 

But Red makes no demands on her in return, and almost seems reluctant when she reaches out to reciprocate. She can't tell if her efforts displease or overwhelm him, so she tries to restrain herself. He prefers to keep his robe on, so she tries to accept that limited access to his skin, although if she's had a few drinks her hands tend to wander to his scars despite the way he flinches and stiffens.

He loves to be inside her, she's quite sure of that, but he always waits for her to beg for it. If she doesn't, she has discovered, he will leave her room unsatisfied without complaint.

Perhaps that's it.

There's something tentative, unsure, almost artificial in the way he treats her. As if he doesn't believe this is real. As if his only role is satisfy her desires, and his own pleasure is secondary.

She's been living in a dream, a haze of desire fulfilled, but now she's waking up.

***

A large apartment with high ceilings in Madrid. 

Liz awakens and lies in bed, staring up at the plaster cornices, golden sunlight slanting through the wooden shutters, trying to remember her current name. They arrived late after hours on a stalled train, and she went straight to bed. Alone.

Sometimes she just wants to lie in Red's arms and be held. To feel an intimacy of spirit, rather than just of the body.

She stretches, unwilling to get up yet despite the faint rattle of china from outside her door that means Dembe is preparing breakfast. The high, metal framed bed is unexpectedly comfortable, but she doesn't want to sleep late this morning.

Liz has finally pinpointed what is really bothering her. After six months of building intimacy and trust, she doesn't feel closer to Red since they have become lovers. She actually feels increasingly distant, as if he has firmly sorted her into place.

She's not going to scream or weep.

She's going to find a way to change that. Or they won't be lovers, not anymore.

In this new life in the criminal underworld, she relies on Red. 

She can live without the best sex of her life, if that's what it takes for them to be close again. 

***

"Is he awake yet?" she whispers to Dembe, holding one finger in front of her lips. Dembe nods without speaking.

Liz is decently covered, in a long white silk robe, but she can see Dembe's eyes widen, one hand outstretched as she approaches Red's bedroom door. Locked. As expected.

She motions for silence again, pulls a lockpick from the pocket of her robe, and expertly pops the lock.

"Lizzie! What are you doing in here?"

Red's tone is severe, his expression sour.

She closes his bedroom door behind her and leans on it, taking in the scene.

The wooden shutters are open, allowing a flood of bright sunlight into a room much like her own. Wearing a small pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses, Red is sitting propped up at the head of his bed, his bare chest visible below the bedclothes he's clutching at his waist, his newspaper dropped to the side. Unshaven, his jaw is silvery with stubble that glints in the bright sunshine.

She steps closer to the bed, feasting on the sight of him. He always comes to her at night, in a dark or dimly lit room. She knows his body only through the brief caresses he allows.

"Lizzie?"

He pulls off his reading glasses and drops them on the coverlet, then rubs his eyes as if the sight of her pains him.

"Red, I need your help."

Liz crosses the room and sits on the side of his bed with her back to the window. She's close enough to touch the scar from the bullet wound on his chest, the ample curve of his belly, the deep lines beneath his tired eyes.

"Yes?"

His lips twitch, and then he's biting at the inside of his mouth, clearly uncomfortable with the way she's staring at him. Liz reaches out and traces one finger up and down the inside of his forearm. Such smooth, white skin, his veins pulsing at his wrist. She remembers watching his clever hands building her a music box, her eyes drawn to the hair on his forearms.

Starting this conversation is harder than she anticipated. She didn't expect him to enjoy her uninvited entry into his private space, but his tense, almost miserable rejection of her presence speaks so exactly to the distance she senses widening between them.

"Red, things between us need to change."

***

Red finds himself holding his breath, as if he could stop time somehow by wishing it was so.

He never wanted Liz to see him like this, all his physical flaws on display in the bright Spanish sunlight.

Let alone the many other ways he's completely undeserving of her embraces.

He's tried to hold her at arms length, to avoid babbling his adoration into her unwilling ears. But she's been looking unhappy anyway, for the last few days.

Here it comes, then. The inevitable end that he couldn't help but expect, despite his best efforts to please her.

"Of course, Lizzie. Whatever you need."

He tries to keep his voice light, unconcerned, but it somehow emerges with a raw edge that causes her to bite her lip, her blue eyes going liquid.

"Really, Red? Anything?"

He can't do more than nod, savoring her fingers as they stroke his forearm. Is this the last time he will feel her touch?

He's been so careful not to make demands on her, to employ every skill at his disposal to relax and to pleasure her.

He watches her hand lift from his skin with a dull sort of resignation. She must be able to see more of his feelings than he wants her to, the way her eyes are so intent on his face, her expression so puzzled.

Her hand pauses in mid-air, then she sets it on his belly, rubbing him gently with her palm. Red doesn't understand.

Her touch seems so appreciative.

He closes his eyes for a moment.

"Lizzie, why don't you leave me to get dressed, and we can talk about this over breakfast?"

Her hand clutches at the loose flesh of his belly, and he opens his eyes to see her shifting closer to him on the bed rather than away, her slim form outlined in the white silk robe, backlit in the sunlight.

She's so young and so lovely, every inch of her perfect in his eyes.

Her other hand traces the puckered tissue of his bullet wound, then she runs both hands together up his chest, her thumbs brushing his nipples repeatedly as she caresses him.

Red can barely speak through the painful lump in his throat. She's touching him almost reverently, exploring the scatter of silvery hair on his chest and the burn scars on his shoulders. Is this her version of goodbye?

"Lizzie, you don't need to ..."

"But I want to."

Her voice is so definite.

He reaches for her wrists, stills her wandering hands.

"Lizzie, please?"

He doesn't want to remember their last time this way, not when two nights ago he held her in his arms for hours. Made love to her with every ounce of self-control he possessed.

He doesn't last long in the morning, especially not if she's caressing him in the exact way he's always longed for, as if his body were as youthful and perfect as her own.

She leans close, whispers against his lips.

"Red, you said anything."

Defeated, he releases her wrists and closes his eyes. He can't fight her any longer.

He just hopes that whatever she wants from him will be over quickly. Her touches are so loving, so sweet, that if she doesn't leave soon, he's going to weep.

And Red never weeps unless he's alone.

***

Open-mouthed, she kisses him, emboldened by his closed eyes, his hands falling limp to his sides as if to emphasize his unwilling surrender.

His resistant mouth tastes like coffee and sleep. She probes deeper with her tongue, finding the taste of him irresistible. No toothpaste taste, just Red.

Her robe falling open, Liz clambers to straddle his thighs, then reaches down and tosses his reading glasses and the newspaper to the far side of the bed.

She spends long minutes kissing his face, his jaw, her hands moving intimately on his body as his breathing quickens, turning to harsh breaths as she finally pushes the covers down and allows their bodies to join. The shock of feeling him arch inside her is almost too intense.

He's so large and she's so determined that she winces as she lowers her hips down that last inch, then pulls his hands away when he reaches for her and pins them at his sides again for a moment. 

"Let me, Red," she whispers. She wants to look at him, touch him, smell and taste him.

If he won't let her close, at least she'll have this morning to remember.

The thought of it catches at her heart and she almost sobs, and she presses her mouth to his again, kissing and kissing him, feeling herself opening slowly as she rocks against him.

His face twists and he pulls his lips away, turning his face violently to the side as he convulses within her after only a few, deep thrusts.

Flooded with wetness and warmth, Liz curls forward and lays her head on his shoulder, tucking her face against his neck, as she presses kisses to first his collarbone and then his neck.

His arms come around her, his hands tracing the line of her spine through her robe.

"Sorry," he mutters at last, his face still turned away.

Liz nuzzles his neck, explores the underside of his stubbled jaw with tiny, firm kisses. She can taste and smell his skin, not overlaid by the strong scent of soap from a shower. 

"Don't be sorry. That felt so good," she tells him. 

"You should go," he whispers, still stroking her back.

"Can't I stay here with you?" Liz raises up to sit astride him, then reaches out to stroke his familiar features tenderly as he looks warily up at her. The arch of his pale eyebrows, the smooth skin at the top of his head. Trying to pour all her feelings into her gaze. "I like you like this."

He purses his lips, his eyes dark with emotion.

"You should go," he says again. His hands are at her bare thighs now, her robe hanging open. Liz shrugs out of it, sets it on the side of the bed.

He's never seen her naked in the sunlight, either, and she watches his eyes widen, glistening. 

"Oh, Lizzie."

That's better. 

"Let me stay, Red," she says again. "Let me spend the morning with you."

He looks confused. They spend every day together.

"Let me read the paper in bed with you. Take a morning shower with you. Watch you get dressed for the day."

An expression of shock crosses his features, quickly suppressed. His mouth opens, then closes soundlessly. His eyes are almost overflowing.

Liz leans down, her breasts brushing his chest, and pauses with her lips just above his. 

"Don't you want to watch me get dressed, some morning?" she whispers suggestively.

***

This can't be real. He must be dreaming.

"Of course," he finally manages to respond. 

Liz gives him a satisfied nod, then leans in a brief kiss, her tongue tracing his lips.

"So I'm going to stay with you." 

She looks so pleased Red can only shrug, terrified the tears welling up in his eyes will overflow.

She's not saying goodbye. She wants this to be real.

"Here."

She reaches across the bed and picks up his reading glasses, unfolds them carefully and smiles down at him.

"Hold still," she cautions him, and Red closes his eyes, feels her fitting his reading glasses into place on his nose, her fingers circling his ears.

She kisses the tip of his nose, then he feels her weight shift as she sits up, her hands on his chest.

He opens his eyes to find her gazing at him in patent satisfaction, her blue eyes wide and bright. Happy.

Red looks at her, really looks. Her slim bare body, still sitting astride him, is tanned a pale golden color save for the paler marks left by her string bikini. She looks relaxed and comfortable, her fingers carding through his chest hair as if she relishes the feel of him. 

She wants him. Just him.

"Well?" he says, knowing his voice is rough with emotion, but needing to do something other than just blink foolishly up at her. "Aren't you going to hand me the paper?"

Liz curls under the covers at his side as Red arranges himself against the pillows once again, and shakes out the paper to find the article he was reading. Her head is pillowed on his chest, and her arm is around him.

He must be dreaming. Red hopes he never awakens.


	19. Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, T, fragment

"How positively ... medieval."

It wasn't a criticism, but rather, an accurate assessment.

Elizabeth Keen stopped just short of the stained, rusty bars and stared into the cell at Raymond Reddington, her nostrils flaring in evident distaste.

Her guide Magda, an elegantly dressed woman in a black dress and heels, her blond hair dressed formally atop her head, shrugged dismissively.

"Cash on delivery, alive," she responded in a mocking tone, slanting a glance at the slender, dark haired woman at her side. "Nothing about unharmed."

Magda had of course heard stories about Reddington's Lizzie, but this woman seemed too cold. Perhaps those stories were just another layer of lies.

Dembe, who sent her to collect and pay for the admittedly damaged merchandise, has never been known to have formed a romantic connection. Was that her true role?

Magda probed a little deeper.

"Please don't be concerned - none of it is permanent."

"Oh, I'm not concerned." 

Elizabeth Keen's carmined lips parted, and her eyes glistened as she stared at the naked man chained to the stone wall of the cell.

She didn't say anything else, but Magda knew that tone when she heard it.

This woman was sexually aroused by the unfortunate situation in which she found her employer.

Shifting from one foot to the other on the hard stone floor of the dungeon, Magda spared a horrified thought for exactly what Count Alexei Evander would do to her if she responded that way to him in a similar situation.

Reddington, however, seemed to be smirking slightly.

"Wrap him up, and I'll take him," said Elizabeth Keen, turning her back on Reddington and lifting an elegantly shaped dark eyebrow at Magda when she made no move to lead them back up the stone stairs. 

"And his price?"

"Will be in your hand when I have him, ready to travel."

Satisfied, Magda smiled and led them away, leaving Reddington alone in the filthy darkness.

***

The big black Rolls rumbles through the darkened countryside, motorcycle escort growling to the front and rear of the car.

"Dembe should have come," Red tells her, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Liz was scheduled to be in Boston for the entire week. 

His plan was a complete success. Up until the point where their eyes met, and her pupils dilated.

He's not looking forward to the conversation they will need to have once they are finally alone. But the aftermath could be spectacular. Or miserable.

"He wanted to," Liz responds without inflection. "But he doesn't give the orders."

She's looking out the window into the impenetrable darkness. Nothing to see, just a few scattered lights in the distance as they wind their way out of the mountains, away from the castle.

Red gives in to an impulse and buries his face in his hands, tipping his fedora back from his forehead with his fingertips. He's sitting forward in the seat, to avoid pressure on his bandaged back, which is uncomfortable enough without the stinging pain of his ankles and wrists, chafed raw as his neck.

Liz hasn't touched him at all. 

They ride in silence for a few minutes. 

Finally he lifts his face and looks over at the back of her head, her hair braided and coiled into a bun, the collar of her overcoat turned up over her long cashmere scarf.

"I got what I needed," he tells her. The mission was a success. He's finally managed to contact his undercover associate at Alexei Evander's castle. A little pain and suffering, well, to be honest, rather a great deal, is absolutely a worthwhile exchange for the information he and Dembe need to eventually infiltrate the Count's stronghold.

Although he'll be sending his team in ahead, not leading the attack personally.

"A bit more than that, it appears to me," she returns dryly, still looking away from him.

He expects it will be quite a while before Liz lets him out of her sight again.

***

Clean and freshly shaven, Red pads into their bedroom in his pajamas to find Liz sitting upright at the head of the bed, reading. She too is wearing nightclothes, a bright blue cotton knit gown.

His back is healing well, but bandages still encircle his wrists and ankles. He's left them off his neck for the first time tonight. The pressure awakens him, again and again.

"I'm almost done with this chapter," Liz informs him, her eyes not leaving the page. She's been working her way through a pile of highly reviewed biographies of famous generals.

Red seats himself on the side of the bed and gathers his self-control before shutting off the bedside lamp and sliding into bed.

Liz hasn't rejected his touch, exactly, but when he moves closer to her in bed she stiffens.

He hasn't ventured to put his arms around her in bed since that first night back, when he slipped into bed in their darkened room, curled around her back and held her, so grateful to be home. Realizing only as their bodies made contact that she was wearing a nightgown.

At that point, he didn't know she even owned a nightgown any longer. He's grown accustomed to it, by now.

"Good night, Lizzie," he tells her, composing himself for sleep on his back. 

"Good night, Red," she tells him, still in the somewhat distant tone she's been using with him unless he exerts himself to make her laugh.

He can still make her laugh.

Red is infinitely patient. He can wait her out.

She has every reason, every right, to be angry with him. But instead, she's been cold. That means that she's angry with herself, as well.

Eventually she'll tell him why.

They have all the time in the world. Red supposes he'll find himself chained to a wall for her pleasure, eventually. She may be waiting for his injuries to heal.

Or perhaps she's ordered those chains forged, already.

He smiles into the silent darkness and composes himself for sleep.


	20. Bad Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, M, Masochist!Red, spanking. Please don't read if this is not to your taste.

Raymond Reddington swaggers into Nora Desmond's salon and lifts a glass of something pink and bubbly from a tray held by a passing waiter. The room is crowded with the eccentric mix of guests for which her gatherings are famous.

He isn't interested in any of them. Not tonight.

Red has business with their hostess.

Her response on the phone was a little odd, but he isn't really concerned. He's known her a very long time.

She draws him aside into an antechamber after only one dance, then locks the tall, gilded doors behind them.

"Ray. What a treat." Her lightly accented voice is cool, but her pale hazel eyes are bright with pleasure beneath her froth of auburn curls.

"It's been too long." Red raised her fingers to his lips, allowed his mouth to linger as he takes in the scent of her latest perfume. 

The richly furnished room is all sea green and gold, tufted velvet on the fainting couch beside the fireplace and satin on the chairs. The windows are covered by thick, floor to ceiling draperies.

Nora gleams in her tight cream dress, a near match to her flawless skin, and her designer high heels. She exudes the ageless confidence common to old, titled money.

"Indeed." 

She strolls around him, and he smiles with relief, slitting his eyes at her. Enjoying her evident appreciation of his new suit.

"You do know about Giorgi?" she asks in an idle tone.

He nods, licking his lips. He does, certainly, but her honesty requires some recompense.

"I, too, am no longer alone," he responds, trying not to think of Lizzie, asleep back on their yacht. So trusting, so determined not to interfere in his business deals. He spent some time arms trading as a cover before catching a cab to the salon. He can't bring himself to say her name, though, not even to Nora.

"So, you want?" She circles him again, a little closer this time, her voice a little deeper. More commanding.

He needs this. 

He lets out his breath, trying to slow his racing heartbeat. It's been so long. 

"Please?" he responds, glancing around the room before allowing his eyes to rest on the curving arm of the couch. Elaborately carved and gilded, it nevertheless looks sturdy.

"Take off your jacket."

Red removes his suit jacket and stands waiting, rocking a little back on his heels as she circles him again.

Nora lifts her chin.

"Over there. Socks, shoes, and belt."

Red strolls to the fainting couch and deposits his jacket, then sits briefly to remove his shoes and socks. He lines them up neatly before standing and removing his belt.

"You will not touch me." Her voice is harsher now, and she repeats her words in German for emphasis.

He nods as he steps to stand facing the arm of the couch, feeling her eyes on his open mouth, his chest lifting as he gulps in deep breaths of excitement.

The nervous thrill, the fear, the bone deep satisfaction.

Her eyes sharpen, deep lines appearing at the down-turned corners of her mouth.

She's never liked this part of the game. Even though she's the one who taught it to him. Helped him to learn what he needed. Still needs.

Nora steps behind him, out of sight, and he feels the palm of her right hand tracing the curve of his ass. He shivers.

She leans close and whispers into his left ear.

"Have you been a bad boy, Ray?"

"Yes." His voice is barely a whisper, his eyes are squeezed tightly closed. "Yes, I've been a very bad boy."

She kneads his flesh through his dress slacks, the wool rasping directly against his bare skin. No boxers tonight. He's hard already, but she won't offer him any relief. Not just because of Giorgi.

"Do you deserve to be punished?"

"Yes."

She stands there, just breathing in his ear, for long enough that he begins to tremble in anticipation.

"Bend forward."

Red folds himself down over the high arm of the fainting couch, one hand grasping the high wooden back, the other braced against the velvet cushions.

His knees are too close together. He waits for the next command.

"Spread your legs and don't move."

Obediently, he moves his bare feet wide. Her hand slides briefly between his legs, then back to his ass, the wool of his dress pants straining as he braces himself, waiting for the first blow.

"Bad boy."

Her hand strikes him at the perfect angle, and he lets out a helpless gasp of pleasure. 

"Yes. Bad."

She slaps him again, a little harder, then again.

"Bad, bad boy."

It's been so long, and this feels so good. He lets out a low moan as the blows continue to fall, waiting for the moment she will undo his trousers. Release him from the scratchy discomfort of the wool fabric.

"Stay still. Don't move."

Red closes his eyes and waits, listening as intently as possible. The thickly carpeted room gives no hint of what Nora is doing.

He wants her bare hand on his heated flesh, wants the loud sound of her slaps. Not his belt, or one of her little switches. Just a long, satisfying spanking.

But it's too late. He doesn't get to choose. Not at this point in the game.

He smells her perfume again before he feels her hand on him once again. A surprisingly gentle caress, as if she can feel some energy emanating from the marks she's surely left on him already.

"Don't move."

Her arms come around his waist, unfasten and lower his trousers almost to his knees. He quivers, naked, his face pressed against the cushions.

"Up on your toes, you bad boy."

He's almost off balance now, unable to turn his head.

"You're a bad, bad, boy."

Her slaps are light at first, almost tentative, then harder. It feels as if she's experimenting, hitting him in different ways, at different angles than he expects. His legs tremble with the effort of staying up on his toes, the fiery sensation spreading deep into his aching groin as she slaps him loudly, finally falling into a hard, deliberate rhythm.

When she finally pauses to caress his sore, swollen flesh, it's all he can do not to climax. 

Her touch is anything but perfunctory, and her fingers dip between his thighs again and again, light little pats that remind him of the harder blows he's already endured.

But he's promised himself not to do that. To save himself for his own hand. He'll tell Liz he had to travel to complete the arms deal, allow time for any marks Nora may be leaving to fade.

He and Liz haven't made any promises of fidelity in the last four months together, but he doesn't want anyone else.

He just needs more.

"Turn your head. Keep your eyes closed."

Awkwardly, Red lifts his face and turns so he is no longer looking at the back of the couch. He keeps his eyes closed.

There's a sliding sound, as if furniture is being shifted.

"Open your eyes."

Red begins to shake as he takes in the scene. Ever inventive, Nora has propped an enormous, gold-framed mirror close to the couch. He can see himself perfectly reflected, his elegant shirt and vest, the crimson marks on his exposed flesh, the crumpled fabric of his trousers tangled at his knees.

He looks vulnerable and completely debauched in this position, his face flushed, his eyes moist. 

Nora strolls around the back of the mirror, then seats herself on the couch at his head.

"What a bad, bad boy," she croons, leaning towards him and wrapping her fingers around his wrists. "You deserve to be punished some more, don't you?"

"Yes," he pants, staring at her in the mirror, as she holds him in place, wondering what torment she has in store for him next.

She meets his eyes in the mirror, her lips twisting into a sardonic smile.

"Close your eyes, Ray."

The moment he does, the hard slaps begin again. In the very same rhythm.

Red's eyes fly open in shock.

The mirror reflects his most terrifying nightmare, his most secret fantasy.

Her hair pinned high on her head in a severe bun, Liz, dressed in a short, strapless silver evening gown and high, matching heels, is spanking him with apparent enthusiasm. Her bare hand falls, and falls again, harder, as he gasps, unable to believe this can be happening.

Nora chuckles, still holding tight to his wrists. 

"Bad boys deserve a good spanking," she purrs at him. "Don't they, Lizzie?"

"Oh yes, Nora" she says, and as Red watches, his face turning bright crimson with humiliation, Liz looks over at the mirror and meets his eyes.

"Bad, bad boy," she mouths at him. Her lips are full and her eyes bright with arousal as she raises her hand and holds it poised as if about to slap him again. "I'm going to spank you so hard for every time you've been bad. Especially tonight. You are very, very bad." 

Red convulses into orgasm, thrusting helplessly against the side of the couch. When its over, he opens his eyes to find the two women watching him in the mirror, all but identical smiles of smug satisfaction on their faces.

Nora chuckles again and releases his wrists.

"Quite a show," she comments. Liz steps back, allowing Red space to struggle to his feet, wincing as he dragging his trousers up to cover himself without looking in the mirror again.

He can't meet her eyes. It's most bizarre and terrifying feeling, being afraid to look at the woman he's loved for so long, who so recently invited him into her bed. Four months is nothing.

He doesn't even know yet if she truly loves him, or if he's just been convenient. 

"Red?" Liz steps close to him, lays one hand on his shoulder. "Are you ok?"

In answer, he pulls her into his arms and holds her close, feeling her pressing herself tightly back against him with no evidence of disdain or repugnance.

Red never intended her to know this part of him. The way he was damaged and bent as a child, long before his life changed, before the future admiral became the hunted criminal.

His first wife had mocked him for these desires, which only fed the fire of his longing as he struggled to honor his marriage vows.

"Lizzie," is all he can manage, but somehow her name is enough. She hugs him tighter, as tall as he is on her silver high heels.

"Come back and join the party once you're ready," Nora announces breezily, before striding across the room to let herself out. Leaving them alone.

He's not going to apologize, or explain. He doesn't know how or why she knew about Nora, or for that matter, how she convinced Nora to arrange for this evening.

He's prepared not to speak of this ever again. To pretend it never happened.

Because he can't, he just won't, explain it to her. Nora is only living person who knows that whole sordid story.

"Do you want to dance a little before we leave? I'd love to waltz with you."

Red shakes his head, still holding her tight. He's painfully sore, and he'll be in worse pain later tonight. The last thing he wants is to do is dance.

"Shall we just go home?"

He nods, unwilling to let her go, his face pressed into her soft, elegantly dressed hair. She smells like Nora's French perfume. 

Finally, Liz pulls back just a little.

"Next time, you come to me."

It's not a question.

Red just holds her, almost numb with shock. Is that truly what she's offering, without him even asking?

"Say yes, Red." Her voice is insistent. Commanding.

He opens his eyes. What he sees in her bright blue gaze melts away the last of his fears.

Love. And desire.

"Yes," he whispers. 

Yes to a life of freedom and passion.

Yes to being held, and known, and cherished. Accepted with all his scars and weaknesses and flaws. Even his most shameful needs.

Maybe he can manage one dance, before they leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this rather uneven collection of different types of stories!


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